You had a group chat with your coworkers, like any other department did. Most of it was harmless—schedule changes, updates from the office, notices about sick days and paperwork deadlines.

But eventually, a smaller chat splintered off from the main one. Just the women from the department.

And, naturally, it became a gossip channel.

Conversations drifted from annoying clients to supervisors, then inevitably to the men in the office—the coworkers, the senior attorneys, even the bosses themselves.

You were part of it from the start, indulging in every second without a hint of concern that any of it might somehow leak.

Especially when the topic turned to your boss: Hiromi Higuruma.

He was a good man. Quiet. Sharp. Obviously exhausted nearly every waking moment. There were permanent shadows beneath his eyes now, his sleeves always rolled unevenly from long hours at work.

And for reasons you refused to examine too deeply, that exhaustion looked incredibly attractive on him.

Today had been particularly brutal. During court, after hours of mounting tension, Higuruma had finally snapped. He’d slammed his gavel down hard enough to startle the entire courtroom, voice sharp as he demanded a retrial. Once. Twice. Again.

An impulsive, reckless decision. One that had earned him a week-long suspension almost immediately after. But the image of him standing there—visibly furious, overworked, barely holding himself together—had settled somewhere unpleasantly deep in your mind.

So instead of waiting until you got home to message the group chat, you stayed behind at your cubicle, phone in hand as your fingers flew across the keyboard, eagerly typing out your thoughts to the other women.

Completely unaware that Higuruma had quietly approached from behind.

And that he was now reading every word over your shoulder.